


Bookstore Blues

by heliocentricity



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Other, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 14:42:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19466140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heliocentricity/pseuds/heliocentricity
Summary: Crowley passive-aggressively pines after Aziraphale, but luckily for him, it kind of works out this time.





	Bookstore Blues

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't filed under M/M, because I will never see Crowley and Aziraphale as anything other than nonbinary. (S/o to that one part of the novel that says Az can't be gay because he has no gender. All I got from it is that he's gay AND agender.) My favorite headcanon is that Crowley wants all of the genders and Aziraphale wants absolutely none of them. Agender and pangender solidarity.

It had been a couple years since the Armageddon that wasn’t, and Crowley had spent the entire day at Aziraphale’s place — although to say they were hanging out was a bit of an overstatement. 

Rather, Crowley was in the angel’s bed buried under as many covers as possible, trying to sleep off the fatigue of the past decade, while Aziraphale was out front in the bookshop’s main area tidying up. It was his bi-monthly cleaning day, he insisted, and though he could just miracle away all the dust, he preferred to take the opportunity to reassess and properly admire his extensive literary collection. 

Crowley told himself he didn’t mind Aziraphale fawning over the books instead of him. Yet being the petulant demon that he was, he decided to rather dramatically throw himself onto Aziraphale’s bed and wait for the angel to pay attention to him. He would wait out the rest of the decade if he had to. 

However Crowley, an avid napper, had underestimated the allure of sleep. Almost as soon as he got settled under the warm sheets, he grew drowsy. The mattress was soft as a cloud beneath him, and everything smelled like his best friend. Momentarily forgetting about his jealously, Crowley fell into the most comfortable slumber of the past century. 

He remained contentedly snoozing until night fell and he became aware of a presence in the room.

“Crowley?” He dimly heard Aziraphale’s voice whispering. “Dear, are you asleep?”

Crowley shifted under the blankets and made a noise to convey that yes, he was awake, but he sure as Heaven wasn’t happy about it. 

“I’m sorry to disturb. . . whatever this is, but I need you to scoot over just a bit, now there’s a love.” 

Crowley flung back the covers, ready to be peevish with the angel, but once he opened his eyes, his defenses melted. Although Crowley had fallen asleep in the dark, Aziraphale had turned on a bedside lamp, which illuminated a corner of the room. He was standing within its arc of light, wearing pajamas and holding a winged mug in one hand, a small book tucked under the other arm. A pair of reading glasses was perched atop his snowy white curls, and he was smiling down at Crowley. 

Crowley drew a hand palm-up over his eyes to shield himself from the brightness. “Oh? Should I leave?” he asked as nonchalantly as he could.

“There’s no need for that,” Aziraphale assured him, and Crowley let go of the breath he had been holding. “You see, I usually read a bit at night, and the bed is the most comfortable place in the shop. There should be enough space for the both of us. . . if you’re willing to scoot over?” 

Although Crowley was still blocking his eyes, he could picture Aziraphale’s current expression: eyebrows raised, mouth quirked into a glowing smile. It was one of many looks which Crowley thought of as Aziraphale’s tempting face, and it was Crowley’s personal favorite. Another common one was the furrowed brow and small pout, as well as the wistful sigh and far-off look. All of them meant Aziraphale wanted Crowley to perform a small miracle for him, and not a single one could be overcome, not even by Crowley’s greatest acts of willpower. If he helped Aziraphale, it would earn him one of the angel’s radiant smiles, and Crowley would do anything for even a glimpse of one of those. 

Crowley pretended to debate whether he would move before letting out a faux-irritated groan and vacating the right-side of the bed. As a personal joke, he made sure to take all the covers with him.

He heard Aziraphale laugh and felt the covers snatched from him very suddenly. There was a brief snap followed by the sound of flapping and fluttering, and then the blanket resettled across the bed in perfect folds. 

“There,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley felt the mattress depress slightly as the angel made himself comfortable, no doubt beneath an immaculately creased coverlet. The mug was placed on the bedside table with a clink, and the lamp was readjusted so its rays fell more directly on Aziraphale’s book. 

The light irritated Crowley, so he turned over to face more pointedly away from the angel. Part of him was hoping Aziraphale would start up a conversation with him or move a little closer, but it was clear after a few minutes that his friend was trying his best to respect Crowley’s privacy and not disturb him. 

Crowley harrumphed and thought to himself, “Well, what if I want to be disturbed?”

About a half-hour later, he decided to take matters into his own hands. 

Scooting closer to Aziraphale, he asked, “So, what’s so great about this book anyway?” He even chanced another peak at his friend through half-closed eyes. 

Aziraphale looked a little surprised that Crowley was asking him such an obvious question, but judging by the smile that lit up his face directly afterward, Crowley knew the inquiry had pleased him. 

He slid his bookmark into place — a crumpled IOU slip Crowley had written him a few decades past, Crowley realized with a start — and carefully placed the book on his lap. “It’s funny you should ask, Crowley, because I do think you’d like this one. It’s called The Picture of Dorian Gray — you remember Oscar Wilde, right? Lovely chap. Well, this is one of the books that helped convict him of obscenity back in 1895 — though this book is anything but obscene. It’s an absolute delight!”

“Got any snakes in it?” Crowley asked, mostly as a joke.

Aziraphale replied, “No, I don’t suppose it does.”

“Well, it would be much better if it had snakes in it,” Crowley countered. 

A small laugh. “I’m sure you’re right.”

They lapsed into silence again, and Aziraphale opened his book and returned to reading. Wanting to keep his angel’s attention, Crowley tried a second tactic. 

“Reading,” he began, and Aziraphale looked down at him. “I don’t understand what’s so great about it. Just squiggles on a page made of dead animal flesh.”

“They’re actually made of dead trees now,” Aziraphale corrected him. “Well, mostly. I don’t think England has used parchment since, well, since the 1500s or something. It’s rather more efficient this way, if you ask me.”

“Yeah, well.” Crowley readjusted underneath the covers so he was even closer to Aziraphale and could see the pages clearly. He pointed a black fingernail at the text accusingly. “It seems like a lot of effort to go through to get a good story. Can you even read in this lighting?”

Aziraphale tapped his reading glasses. “That’s what these are for, dear.” 

“Hmm. . . “ Crowley was certain Aziraphale could simply will his eyesight to be sharper, but he couldn’t ignore the fact that the angel looked simply dashing in them. A part of him was ruffled by how completely he fell for Aziraphale’s nerdy bookworm aesthetic. It was so at odds with his own, which he had once heard described as "motorcycle chic."

“I can always read the book out loud for you,” Aziraphale offered. “I’m rather good at creating different voices for characters, you know. I’ve dabbled in the narrating profession a few times before.” He sounded incredibly proud of this fact. “Audiobooks are just such a wonderful invention, don’t you think? I was responsible for that one, you know.” Aziraphale winked, and Crowley’s heart melted, although he had never cared about audiobooks before in his long immortal life.

Crowley let out a small huff. “Be my guest,” he said in a bored voice. “If anyone can make Oscar Wilde interesting, I’m sure it’d be you.” His words were sincere, but his tone made the entire thing sound rather sarcastic. If Aziraphale noticed this discrepancy, he didn’t let on.  
Instead, the angel cleared his throat and began to read. He was already near the end of the story, but Crowley had no trouble understanding the plot. In fact, although he hadn’t said anything to Aziraphale, he had read the book once himself. Well, a manuscript anyway. He had known Oscar Wilde quite well, Crowley. Aziraphale was right: He was a lovely chap. 

That evening, however, the plot didn’t matter, and neither did the charismatic author. All Crowley cared about was Aziraphale. The angel’s voice sounded as though it were dipped in honey as he imitated the seemingly innocent Dorian, then it was stretched and round the very next moment as he voiced the tortured artist Basil. When he read the bits of narration, his voice returned to the one Crowley liked best: Aziraphale’s usual. However, now it was laced with suspense and excitement, reflecting just how much his friend loved reading. 

Crowley wondered to himself just how many times Aziraphale had read or heard these exact words, and shouldn’t he be bored of them by now? But after a moment of thought, Crowley supposed it didn’t matter. The joy was in the journey, after all, and from his own experience pining after Aziraphale for six thousand years, Crowley knew that the beauty in some things just wasn’t diminished by time. If anything, it only grew.  
That’s certainly how Crowley felt that night, lying in bed next to his closest friend as he read a fantastic book. 

Crowley was so caught up in the comfort of the moment, that he completely forgot why he had been irritable all day and why he should be playing hard to get. In fact, no longer willing to filter his love for the angel through sarcastic words and sardonic tones, Crowley repositioned himself in the bed. He snuggled up close to the angel, and Aziraphale shifted beside him, accommodating Crowley so that they more comfortably rested on one another. They pressed together like two novels on a shelf, their edges fitting as seamlessly as puzzle pieces. The position was cozy, if a little inconvenient for Aziraphale, who had to read with one hand from that point onward, but neither of them complained. Instead, the entire Universe seemed to sigh in relief as its two favorite supernatural entities took a moment entirely for themselves.


End file.
